


In Trousers (With Satiny Pink Panties Underneath)

by queer_occurrences



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Angst with a Happy Ending, Falsettos AU, Found Family, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:28:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29185557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queer_occurrences/pseuds/queer_occurrences
Summary: Some days it feels like the end of the world. Some days it feels like a big, happy family. If more muddled up and miserable and a whole lot gayer than Dean would have expected a big, happy family to be.(Dean has sex with Cas. Things get worse from there.)Snapshots from an expanded Endverse, Falsettos style.
Relationships: Billie (Supernatural: Form and Void)/Charlie Bradbury, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Endverse Castiel/Endverse Dean Winchester
Kudos: 7





	1. Whizzer Going Down

“You shouldn’t fuck anybody else,” says Dean casually. Sucking a spot into Cas’ shoulder. Cas is a wreck under him, but it doesn’t stop him from being a bitch. Nothing does, seems like. A slow smile curls across Cas’ face like sin—he chuckles, breathy—and Dean regrets everything.

“You want to go steady, Winchester?” Cas rumbles. His hand’s a warm distraction on Dean’s hip. “Should’ve said something.”

Dean says, “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He bites Cas’ lip, hard enough to draw blood.

But Cas isn’t done. “Want to wear my—“ he says. Dean digs his fingernails into Cas’ shoulder blades and Cas chokes on a moan. “Jacket,” Cas finishes, and grins. “Letterman—“ Dean bruises him with a kiss, hands roving over him, trying the best ways Dean knows to shut him up. 

“Corsage to the prom,” Cas gets out, and when Dean snarls he laughs.

“Don’t want you being such a fucking slut, that’s all,” says Dean, low in Cas’ ear. “You could catch something.”

Cas just throws his head back and cackles. That’s fair. It’s weak, as excuses go.

*

Charlie doesn’t know they’re sleeping together. She doesn’t need to. Dean doesn’t need a fucking peanut gallery to tell him this is a bad idea. If she asked, he’d lie. But she hasn’t asked yet, so it isn’t a lie. Anyway, it’s not anything worth telling about. Nothing structured or planned. Stumbled into being like every other godforsaken broken thing in this craphole of a life. Too many glasses of scotch. A mission gone wrong. A couple thoughtless words from Cas—maybe not so thoughtless—got Dean riled up so he couldn’t think straight.

He is. Straight.

Not like he couldn’t shut it down anytime he wanted. He’s not  _ Cas,  _ he’s not an addict. 

He just hasn’t seen the need to stop.

Why would he? Cas knows him. Cas knows how he works, Cas knows all of his sloppy insides, how to take him apart and put him back together again brand new, or something like it. Cas pushes and pulls and complains like a motherfucker, but in the end Cas stays. Charlie should be glad. No more screaming women barging in while she and Billie are getting steamy to throw Dean’s boxers in his face. It makes the whole straight man living with lesbians thing more tenable, after all. When she and Billie kick him out of the cabin to do—you know—who could blame him if he goes to do—you know—of his own? Who could blame him?

Besides, Cas is happier. More controllable, and they haven’t been able to control him in God knows how long. Less bitter. He’s only high off his ass half the time now and moderately high other times, instead of strung up like a kite every second of every day. And he’s stopped inviting people to his orgies at dinner. If it took fucking Dean to get him to realize that sex is a private, shameful thing, then maybe that’s a fair deal. A win-win, even.

Dean’s happier, too.

*

Dean’s pulling up his pants and fumbling with the belt ‘cause whoever gets the door first gets the shower. Cas is gonna go in nothing but a fucking shirt before Dean stops him and reminds him how that would look. Dean’s leaving, and Cas brushes a hand on his shoulder and whispers oh-so-softly, “You don’t need to worry about them.”

Dean pretends not to have heard. Cas doesn’t say it again. But Dean thinks about it. He thinks about it all the way to the shower, and while he’s kicking Chuck out of the shower he thinks about it some more.

*

The den’s a guy hangout, but everyone’s too scared of Dean to use it except Charlie, Billie and Cas. So it’s not much of a guy hangout. And ‘cause Charlie and Billie pop in sometimes, Dean mostly avoids putting the moves on Cas there. But it’s been a real heck of a day, and Dean’s telling Cas the plot of Tombstone, and the next thing they know Charlie’s voice is saying, “Oh, my God, you’re having SEX?” And whaddaya know, Dean’s hand is on Cas’ ass. He hadn’t even noticed.

The world can end in a New York minute. Haven’t you heard?


	2. Marvin at the Psychiatrist

Charlie kicks him out. She says he’s being dumb and self-destructive and when it goes bad between them it’s going to tear the camp apart. The news—Cas and Dean are fucking, big whoop—spreads over the camp like disease. Dean does what he does best, which is something dumb and self-destructive to spite everyone. He moves in with Cas.

They don’t talk about it. Dean just comes in with his bags and plunks them down, stretches out on the bed. Cas flips him off. Dean takes off his shoes.

It’s bad. They all know it’s going to be bad. Seems like Cas knows it more than anybody. Slinking around and picking up after himself. He’s never clean, but he is now. He never leaves the cabin, but he does now. God, does he now.

“Not like we’re even fucking,” Dean grumbles, when Charlie’s softened enough to speak to him—it doesn’t take long—and when he’s swallowed his pride enough to reply—it takes longer. “You should let me move back in.”

“Have you talked to him?” says Charlie. They’re eating their lunch away from the others, just the two of them, ‘cause Billie doesn’t eat, it’s freaky. They’re sitting on barrels with their legs splayed out. The whole camp has eyes on them.

Dean stares at her blankly.

“With words,” says Charlie.

Dean scowls at her. “We talk.”

Charlie doesn’t press the point. She’s the only one who isn’t scared of Dean, besides her  _ terrifying  _ girlfriend, but even she knows when to stop. 

Dean wolfs his food and leaves as quick as he can. He’s prickly all over, itching and nervy, and he’s sick of everybody looking at him, everybody judging. Goes to check in with Chuck about supplies. They’re out of toilet paper again.

Dean’s about to leave, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Cas slinking off to one of the cabins in the back, the ones that house the more—unsavory characters of Chitaqua. His chest flares with something tight and ugly. He wheels to face Chuck and claps a hand on his shoulder and steers him to the back of the cabin. Shoves him into place, out of sight, backed against the wood with nowhere to go. The firs tower around them and the shingles of the cabin are rotting. Dean glances around once to make sure no one’s watching and says, “You’ve dated guys.”

Chuck’s eyes dart up and down again. Pure terror. “Mm-hmm.” He’s frozen like a rabbit.

“You ever been with any—” Dean waves a hand. “Real good-for-nothing, piece of shit, manipulative types?”

Chuck stares at his shoes and squeaks, “One or two.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “And?”

“And,” Chuck echoes, rocking back and forth on his toes, head down as if bracing for impact.

“And how’d you deal with it?”

“It depends,” says Chuck, and then rocks some more. He opens his mouth, takes a short breath, lifts his hand—stops—screws up his face, his mouth closes, his hand falls. Then his mouth opens again.

“Spit it out,” says Dean. 

“Do you l—lo…do you like him?” says Chuck.

They stare at each other. Dean steps back.

“No,” says Dean. He swallows, hard. “Sort of.”

Chuck’s eyes glint. There’s some real curiosity in there, behind the fear, and eagerness awakening. It makes Dean squirm. “Do you need him?”

“No,” says Dean. And again, “No.” His ears are buzzing, kind of. He jams his hands in his pockets and glances around again. Nobody’s there. “Yes.”

Chuck gives him a look that tries to say,  _ I see you, I hear you,  _ and Dean slaps it out of the air with a two-ton glare. Chuck drops his gaze in a hurry and scuffs his shoe thoughtfully into the dirt.

Finally, Chuck says, “He’s pretty.”

“Pretty,” Dean agrees immediately, and Chuck’s eyes are on him again. “Pretty, pretty worthless. Sometimes.”

Chuck laughs quietly and humorlessly. “And kind of hard to describe.”

“You can say that again.” Dean forces down a smile and swallows it.

“Do you trust him?”

“Of course,” says Dean. 

He shies away from Chuck’s eyes. 

“Not with this,” he says. His lip twitches up in cold amusement. “I don’t trust anybody with this.” And he can stare Chuck evenly down again. It’s Chuck’s turn to look away.

“He can be…careless,” says Chuck carefully. “And—spiteful, and cruel.”

“So am I,” says Dean. 

Chuck nods. Dean scowls.

“Do you know,” Chuck starts again, “do you even know what he is to you? A soldier, a lover, a—“

Dean grimaces and cuts him off. “He’s my best friend,” he says. “He’s my—“ He stops before he says  _ brother.  _ Chuck hears it anyway.

“That’s,” says Chuck, “that’s really messed up, Dean.”

“Don’t,” Dean grits out, “that’s not—“

“You’re sleeping with him.”

“You think I don’t fucking know?”

Dean sticks his hands on his hips, to keep himself from strangling Chuck more than anything else.

“There’s Cas,” he says, strained, “you know, Cas, and then there’s—there’s—“

“The Cas you’re screwing,” says Chuck.

“Exactly,” says Dean, and then thinks about what he just agreed to. “No. It’s—“

“You hate the Cas you’re screwing because you hate yourself,” says Chuck, “and you hate him for wanting to have sex with you.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Pretty sure that’s not it,” says Dean.

Chuck sighs. Spreads his hands out. “But you do hate him.”

Dean bites his tongue and closes his eyes and thinks. Really thinks. His head immediately starts aching.

“I think,” says Dean finally, whispered hoarsely, “if he loved me, I’d say it back.”

Chuck’s eyebrows furrow.

*

That night, Dean lays a Cas-trap. A dusty bottle of the good whiskey, a half-full glass beside it. A full container of pills. All stuff Cas could get himself, and has. But it’s what it means. It says— _ I want you here to stay.  _ It says— _ I’d rather have you. Fucked in the head or not. _

Then Dean stretches out on the bed still in his jeans and boots and pretends to be asleep.

Cas creeps in a while after curfew. He stands in the doorway and takes one long look at Dean. The moonlight accentuates the sweaty shine of his hair, his sallow face and the soft glow of his eyes. He crosses over to the table slow and languid. He lifts the glass, inspects it, drains it, and sets it back down—silently. He takes the neck of the bottle in his hand and tips it back. His eyes are trained on Dean, blank and dark, as he swallows one, two, three times, his throat bobbing. Then he wipes his mouth, sets it down, and lets it clink this time. Finally, he wraps blocky fingers around the pill bottle, slips it off the table and deliberately turns his back.

He rustles the beads as he walks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!!! Comments bring me endless joy!!!


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